jere7my | The Tyranny of the Audience

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Current Music: Ballad Of A Thin Man & Like A Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan

The Tyranny of the Audience

A curious thing happened at the Royal Albert Hall in 1966. Bob Dylan, for the second half of his much-anticipated concert, plugged in. The audience had come for a folk music concert; many of them were shocked and upset that their ears were being assaulted with an electric guitar. People walked out; people booed. This was not lost on Dylan, whose rendition of Ballad of a Thin Man was raw, angry—and, for the first time, turned against his audience.

Something is happening, and you don't know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Jones?

Afterward, one audience member cried "Judas!"—it's preserved perfectly on the CD—and was rewarded with widespread applause. Dylan's laconic, whined answer: "I don't believe you." Then he played Like a Rolling Stone, with that same sickened anger, thanked his audience, and left the stage, to perfunctory applause and a taped recessional recording of God Save the Queen.

It was a significant event in the history of rock and roll, and books have been written about Dylan going electric. But it's also interesting as a portrait of an audience. From their perspective, they'd paid for something and weren't getting it; they were perfectly right to complain, in their point of view. But in hindsight it became clear that they were present for a pivotal concert; there are boatloads of people today who wish they could have been there, and I imagine most of those who were there tell their grandkids about it.

I think about the Royal Albert Hall concert when I see people reacting to new SF. As a writer, I want to push boundaries, challenge my readers, do the unexpected—but time and time again I hear people say, particularly on Usenet, "I didn't like the main character" when the story depended on an unlikable main character, or "I don't like nonlinear storytelling," or "this season was too dark," or a dozen other things that make me hesitate to try anything unusual. I want to take them by the shoulders and say, "I don't believe you."

As SF readers, I think we have an obligation to challenge ourselves, to seek out the interesting as well as the comfortable. We shouldn't read (or watch) things that we don't like, but we should be interested, sometimes, in digging to learn what an author is trying to say—even if it's not personally appealing, even if it means swallowing something galling from time to time. I worry that the vast array of choices the modern world offers is turning us into gourmands, wrinkling our noses at whatever is not custom-prepared for our palates. By keeping such straitlaced opinions we miss opening ourselves to important works, things that might change our opinions, just as the people who walked out of the Royal Albert Hall missed an epochal event in the music they love. And we discourage writers from producing challenging works, by making them harder to sell.

Example: There are plenty of legitimate reasons to dislike The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, purple prose being foremost, followed closely by misuse of the word "glaive." I have no quarrel with anyone who's read it and hated it. But I know many, many people who "couldn't get past the rape." A protagonist who commits rape, in some eyes, is irredeemable. Never mind that the rape is the core of Donaldson's point about the Land and unbelief, and the defining act of Covenant's character; Covenant committed rape, which makes the book unreadable—whether or not it is interesting.

(I should make an exception here for people who have personal reasons for being unable to read about rape. That's not what I'm talking about, as I hope is clear.)

I try to approach a work with open eyes and faith in the author. If there's something interesting there to be found, I hope I'll find it, and I'm willing to suffer in the search. I have my own arbitrary hot buttons—enlightened feminist pagan wish-fulfillment, e.g.—but my goal is to overcome them. If I come away from something with a preconceived notion overturned, I count it a victory.

Then again, I also like watching Welcome Back, Kotter, so my horse can't be all that high. :)=

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Interesting. I mostly agree with your general point, but:

I'm one of the couldn't-get-past-the-rape people. I recognize that there was a point to having the character do that, but it made me dislike him so much (and iIrc I already didn't like him) that I lost interest in the character and the trilogy/ies. The point being (for me) not that a protagonist who commits a rape makes the book unreadable, but rather that there wasn't enough else to like (for me) in the book to make it worth continuing past that big barrier. There are characters in fiction who do horrific things but who are nonetheless utterly compelling (Hannibal Lecter comes to mind); for me, Covenant wasn't one of those.

So I guess where I come down on the general question is that I approve in the abstract of artists taking risks and doing new things -- but I probably would've walked out of the Dylan concert, because when an artist goes too far outside of my comfort zone, no matter how much artistic respect I have for them, I don't enjoy or like the art they're creating, and I tend to stop subjecting myself to it. The rational part of me doesn't want artists to stagnate or to keep doing the same thing over and over; but the part of me that enjoys an artist's work gets pouty when that artist moves on into work that actively turns me off.

But I think it can sometimes be possible to create a work that's so compelling that you bring the audience along with you, willy-nilly. The example that springs to mind for me is Sandman: the first issue I saw was the "Diner of Death" issue, and my reaction was "This is extremely well done, and I wish the creators well with it, but it's just too revolting to make me willing to read it." It wasn't until some months later that I read the incredibly charming Death issue ("The Sound of Her Wings," I think? Issue 8, maybe?) and realized that there was going to be stuff in this series that I could like as well as respect; at that point I went back and read the whole series from the start, and in that context I could appreciate the "Diner of Death" issue a little more. I still didn't exactly like it, but it didn't stop me from reading and enjoying the rest of the series, and it probably expanded the boundaries of things I did like, at least a little.

The first time I read Covenant, in high school or early in college, I couldn't get past the rape either. I had, and still have, no personal experience that even comes close to rape, but the idea was still too repugnant to me.

This thought just occurred to me -- in my teens, fantasy that involved some kind of transit to another world was very, very important to me --not interplanetary voyage sf, though I read that, too. I'm talking about some kind of magical, bodily transfer to a completely different reality. So, call it escapist fantasy. That idea was very important to me. And Donaldson...the way he assigns Covenant that whole mind-set of unbelief...he stands all that old notion of escapism on its head. So, I think I was also unprepared for how dark Covenant's experiences in The Land were going to be. Also, and I'm riffing on this as I go, I must have identified with Covenant a lot when I first read the book. "Oh, you're a lonely, bitter, ostracized leper. Well, I'm a lonely, geeky, ostracized kid. So, I'm going to go with you on this journey and identify heavily with you and experience this world through you. Oh, look, we're in this beautiful other world where we're considered a returned hero. *Sigh* how wonderful...what do you mean you don't believe it?!!!" Then, bam, rape -- complete end of identification with character.

When I went back to the book several years later, however, I was able to appreciate that Donaldson was trying to do something different with this story, different from a lot of other extra-worldly fantasy books. And, yeah, I agree with you -- the rape is absolutely crucial to the story.

But you could explain better than I could, 'cause you're the writer, not me. :)

As I understand it, the issue that most people I've spoken with have with Thomas Covenant is that he's a wholly unlikable main character. Generally, people like to sympathize with at least one of the major characters, but there really isn't anything about Covenant that people want to identify with. The rape is simply the last straw. Up until that point, he's been a bit of a bastard, but the world's been a bastard to him, so the reader can almost excuse his behavior.

Well, I loved _Mostly Harmless_ and the last episode of Seinfeld, so I sympathize.

The odd thing about sf/f fandom is the way people tend to feel like they *own* the material. I don't like rhetoric about fantasy or science fiction being a "gateway to another world", because people seem to actually believe that; the world is a vacation resort that they live in and enjoy, and the author's job is to provide a satisfying, made-to-order experience for them.

It's in that sense that sf/f and other genre literature is "juvenile", not in the sense that aliens and spaceships and dragons are inherently juvenile. People *treat* sf/f as juvenile fiction, as old familiar stories from their childhood, and the novels have to deliver the happily-ever-after endings. Hence the reams and reams of bad cookie-cutter fiction in the sf/f genre (and the romance genre, and the horror genre, and the mystery-thriller genre).

The sf/f I like doesn't have to be experimental or wild, but it has to break expectations in some way. _Mostly Harmless_ was genius because it took a series that had been groundbreaking because it took a series did something with sf/f you hadn't seen much before -- made a farce of the whole thing -- and un-farced it and showed you the darkness and pain that had been inside it *from the very beginning*. Same deal with Seinfeld. And I like a good laugh as much as anyone, but what I like better is being given insight into *why* I laugh, and the moral problems of laughing at certain things... (What gets me is how *well* _Mostly Harmless_ does it -- and how predictably people hated it because it did it so well, but oh well...)

I'm sort of in this camp--He was an unlikable main character, so I wasn't enjoying the book. Then he committed rape and because he was such a jerk (and had recently gotten the use of his relevant parts back--see The Barbed Coil by J.V. Jones for a much better treatment of people going to another world and getting healed of bizarre illnesses), it made sense in context, so I wasn't that bothered (see Ship of Destiny by Robin Hobb for a rape that's out of context and thus series-ruining).

The problem I had with it is that I didn't find The Land compelling. Nobody writing after the 1950s has any right to create a world more starkly good/evil than Tolkein's Middle-Earth, whose dualistic philosophy is bearable because it's not simplistic, has notable exceptions, and is backed up by fantastic amounts of world-building. The Land, on the other hand, has a simplistic structure, no real suspense, and an uncompelling history. I wouldn't want to live there, no matter who I was.

Plus, the names. It's been my experience, rarely contradicted, that if a writer who's not Milton or Bunyan assigns allegorical names to his characters, or names that describe their personalities, or names that aren't terribly interesting, the story will suck. For an egregious example, check out Jean Auel's Earth's Children book, which has:

Serenio: A calm, peaceful, and, well, serene character.
Broud: A loud, bullying, and, well, prideful character.
Madenia: A character notable only for being a virgin.
Fralie: A character notable only for being sickly and weak.
Attaroa: A character notable only for being very intense.

Thomas Covenant, similarly, has Lord Foul. Even Sauron and Lucifer were once good and beautiful--Lord Foul could be naught but evil from the start. Thomas "Covenant" as well. With a name like that, how could he not be the hero? The Land. Why not give it a name? Sure, the people of the Land might not have bothered, but it sounds like Donaldson just got bored.

For a Donaldson book better in every way, check out "Mordant's Need." It even has rape that doesn't mess with the storyline.

Plus, the names. It's been my experience, rarely contradicted, that if a writer who's not Milton or Bunyan assigns allegorical names to his characters, or names that describe their personalities, or names that aren't terribly interesting, the story will suck.

I could point out "Han Solo" and "Greedo," but won't.

You have to remember that Covenant himself is a writer of hack fantasy novels. Part of his Unbelief stems from the fact that the Land has so obviously (to him) sprung from his unconscious; no real place could have people named Foul and Drool Rockworm. That may not be what you're after, but it's certainly not that Donaldson got "lazy," any more than Vinge got lazy with the Spiders in Deepness. (I won't say more to avoid spoilers.)

The problem I had with it is that I didn't find The Land compelling. Nobody writing after the 1950s has any right to create a world more starkly good/evil than Tolkein's Middle-Earth, whose dualistic philosophy is bearable because it's not simplistic, has notable exceptions, and is backed up by fantastic amounts of world-building.

The Land is based very strongly on Middle-Earth—again, consciously, I believe. Covenant was a writer of cheesy fantasy, presumably a Tolkien knockoff; the Land looks at first glance to be a cheesy Tolkien knockoff. (Thus we have a Ring of Power, a cave-dwelling slimy creature desperately seeking said Ring, shepherds of the forest, horse people, etc., etc.) It wouldn't make sense for the Land to have the same kind of internal history as Middle-Earth, because Donaldson maintains the fiction (to a point) that the Land is Covenant's fever-dream.

What's interesting about the Covenant series is not the world, per se, but the interaction between the world and Covenant—an aspect which is wholly absent from Tolkien, since all of his characters are too much a part of the world to conflict with it. The keystone of Covenant is Unbelief, and the unreality of the Land is key to that. If the Land had been as historically rich as Middle-Earth, it would have been easier for Covenant to accept it—a traveler to Middle-Earth is, really, just a time traveler.

And, again, the duality of the Land reflects the duality in Covenant himself. It's not meant to be perceived, fully, as a real place; it's partially an expression of Covenant's internal state.

With a name like [Covenant], how could he not be the hero?

That's what he has to ask himself—which, again, was part of what made Covenant interesting. "He will save or damn the land." The fact that he has a promise for a name just adds to the pressure he feels to accept the role of Berek Halfhand reborn, and increases his reflexive rejection of that role. Hence, internal conflict, which Covenant needs to find the stable center of.

>Han Solo and Greedo: Hell, Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader (You don't even need a working knowledge of German to transpose that to Dark Father)...Star Wars has its share of lousy names.

But Obi-Wan Kenobi, Lando Calrissian(OK, Calrissian sounds like a Star Trek race, but it's still a good name), Mon Mothma, Palpatine(one of the top 10 villain names of all recent sci-fi, in my opinion), Grand Moff Tarkin, Boba Fett...those are quality names. Not to mention Tatooine, Dantooine, Hoth, Coruscant, Endor, Dagobah, which are quality place names. Star Wars has its schlocky moments and its brilliant moments, and it has its good and bad names.

>You have to remember that Covenant himself is a writer of hack fantasy novels.

And the Covenant books are, well, fairly generic hack fantasy, that would be lousy with or without a rape. If I hadn't already read Mordant's Need before I picked up Covenant, I'd never have thought that the guy who wrote the latter could write anything half as good as the former.

The Land as a reflection of Covenant's internal state: His internal state is really boring, then. The story of a fairly boring person's trek through his subconscious is not terribly compelling. I'd rather read I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, or Neverending Story. Deborah Blau and Bastian are so much more interesting than Thomas Covenant, there's just no comparison.

And, for that matter, Tolkien clones rank just below Harry Potter slash with Mary Sues in my cosmology of fantasy writing. What they all boil down to is Middle-Earth without the parts that Tolkien worked hardest on. Without a complex world behind the plot, or even hints of same, you're just writing a lower-quality derivation of something else. (This is more a rant about tolkien clones in general, since I believe your point that The Land is too much part of Covenant to have an actual history) Good fantasy, like C.J. Cherryh's Fortress series (or, for that matter, Donaldson's Mordant's Need), sketches out a moderately complex world, hints at the further depth without going into it, tosses around a lot of names that never get explained (thus suggesting a world deep enough that the story itself could be told within it, in which case the reader would know who the Chomaggari are and where Panys is--Mordant's Need doesn't come with a map, but the place descriptions are so vivit that by the end of the story the reader can draw a map of Mordant, Cadwal, and Alend), and features forms of social organization compatible with human psychology--in short, it creates a believable world, using shorthand when neccesary.

>Han Solo and Greedo: Hell, Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader (You don't even need a working knowledge of German to transpose that to Dark Father)...Star Wars has its share of lousy names.

But they are consciously lousy. Lucas was modeling his movie after the pulp serials. Donaldson was doing something similar, consciously modeling the Land after fantasy tropes.

The Land as a reflection of Covenant's internal state: His internal state is really boring, then. The story of a fairly boring person's trek through his subconscious is not terribly compelling.

We're going to have to agree to disagree, then, because I think Covenant is one of the most interestingly complex characters in fantasy.

And, for that matter, Tolkien clones rank just below Harry Potter slash with Mary Sues in my cosmology of fantasy writing. What they all boil down to is Middle-Earth without the parts that Tolkien worked hardest on. Without a complex world behind the plot, or even hints of same, you're just writing a lower-quality derivation of something else.

This is demonstrably false, because Donaldson gave us something in Covenant that Tolkien never gave us: a realistically complex character. All of Tolkien's characters are archetypes, and only Sam ever rises above them; this is fine as far as it goes, but Thomas Covenant is a living, bleeding, sweating human being. The Chronicles have a fundamentally different goal from LotR.

The Chronicles are not a Tolkien clone; they are a reaction to Tolkien, and a riff on his themes. The details and history of the Land—the elements of Tolkien influence—are the least important part of the book; they serve as a backdrop for the story, whereas in Tolkien they are the heart of the story.

>This is demonstrably false, because Donaldson gave us something in Covenant that Tolkien never gave us: a realistically complex character.

I did mention above that this rant was primarily directed at other works. Nevertheless, if you think Thomas Covenant is an interesting character the series about him is for you; otherwise, it has no redeeming value.

Nevertheless, if you think Thomas Covenant is an interesting character the series about him is for you; otherwise, it has no redeeming value.

I would agree that one shouldn't read the Chronicles if one doesn't fine Covenant interesting, but the second clause is false. The Giants and Coercri, Lord Mhoram, Nom, Hile Troy, those roynishly lovable waynhim, Vain...there are plenty of interesting, likeable, and original things in the books other than the anti-hero. I've heard a number of people say that they didn't particularly care about Covenant, but the beauty of the Land kept them reading.

What do you think of people who won't watch gory movies simply because they're gory? Are they wrongheaded?

My mom won't watch movies with characters with too many limbs. She just leaves if it's on TV, or checks on it beforehand if it's a theater film.

Rape is right up there in terms of visceral reactions. Some people are physically sickened by horror, written or visual, so I'm not going to dismiss their feelings about atrocity that much. (I don't think the analogy with amped-up music is entirely apt.)

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The Tyranny of the Audience

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